Christmas Present
by writerfangirl
Summary: Christmas is a time for family. We need to cherish these moments, because one day, we might not have the chance anymore...


**A/N: Okay so I'm so sorry that I haven't been updating. I know that I've explained myself, but it doesn't make me any less guilty. I would've posted this sooner but for some reason I couldn't upload it on Doc Manager. It took me forever to fix it. Merry Christmas and Enjoy! Also please remember that I don't abandon stories. **

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><p>As humans, we often take the most precious things for granted. We always think that, no matter what, this precious gift will always be there. Somehow, though, even after centuries' worth of people learning this lesson the hard way, we never seem to pick up on it until it happens to us.<p>

Bruce Wayne had everything a man could ever ask for –money, fame, fortune, women, and a successful business. What people don't know is that Bruce Wayne would trade all of that if it would make his son, Dick Grayson, happy.

There is nothing more important to the billionaire than his adopted son. No one would dare hurt his son, lest they face the wrath of either Bruce Wayne, or Batman.

It was nearing Christmas Eve, and there were so many last minute preparations that needed to be overseen, fixed, or made. Having a fortune-500-company is not an easy job, which is why Bruce Wayne is so busy.

"Well if we already satisfied their conditions, why can't they just hand over the papers?" Bruce Wayne demanded to one equally frustrated Lucius Fox. He'd been in his home office the whole day, talking to his CFO about an awfully uncooperative partner.

A few seconds passed before the billionaire responded again. "That's bullshit. Tell them they better hand over those documents or the next time we see each other, it'll be in court." With that, he hung up the phone.

Bruce basically collapsed into the chair behind him. He didn't usually use such foul language while talking to his old friend, but these problems have been going on for a week, and even Batman's patience has been tested.

Before he could call back Lucius, his door creaked open, and the head of his adopted son peeked in.

"Bruce?" a tentative voice asked. "Are you done with work? Because I really wanted to show you something." His voice grew more hopeful with each word.

Normally, with the pleading his boy is doing right now, he would've succumbed in seconds. Right now, however, all he wanted to do was finish his taxing week so he could get on with his life.

As much as Bruce would love to give in and spend some time with Dick, he had work to do. "Not now, Dickie. Maybe later." He then proceeded to usher his son out of his office while redialing Lucius' number.

"But it'll just take-" He was interrupted by the door shutting at his face. "- a second." he said, glumly.

He sighed and told himself he would try again later. He trudged up to his room, considerably less cheerful than before. Upon reaching his room, he plopped down onto his bed.

He stared at the ceiling as if it had all the answers in the world. He sighed and sat up. Instead of staring at the ceiling, he stared at the Christmas present he was supposed to give Bruce. He had though about this gift for months.

Bruce Wayne was not an easy man to shop for. What do you get man, who could literally get anything he wants? At the time, it befuddled the little acrobat's mind. His adoptive father saved him. Bruce saved him from himself.

He finally decided on making his father a painting. This painting took up most of his time, when he thought of the idea. It was all worth it in the end, he realized. His painting was very simple.

It was a representation of his new family. Under the moonlight in a forest, a bat was helping a robin that fell out of his nest. The little robin's wings were injured but the bat was helping him. Watching over the two winged creatures was a wise, old, owl.

After hours of contemplating on how to get Bruce to look at the gift, he realized with a start, that it was already dinnertime. He hopped off his bed and headed towards the dining room.

He was hoping that maybe Bruce could see it after dinner. His hopes were crushed when he entered the dining room. On the long dining table, there were two plates set up; one at the head of the table, and one to the right of the former. Each plate had a steak cooked to perfection, with sides of grilled asparagus, and mashed potatoes topped with mushroom gravy.

This would have been a normal set-up. Had Bruce not have been screaming at his phone, and had Alfred not been giving Bruce a disappointed gaze off to the side. He somberly made his way to his place at the table; well aware of the sympathetic stare Alfred gave him.

Alfred knew of his surprise and had been a great help, in terms of acquiring the necessary supplies. He was also well aware of his efforts to show his adoptive father said gift. Dinner passed uneventfully, as right after Bruce finished his phone call, he hurriedly ate the rest of his dinner, before getting up mumbling an excuse about how he had work to finish.

Once his father was out of sight, Dick slumped into his chair. He stared at the half-eaten steak and the asparagus and mashed potatoes he'd picked at. He looked at his grandfather figure.

"Alfred, I'm not very hungry." he mumbled, pushing his plate away.

The dejected tone the child used, tugged at the butler's heartstrings. Normally, he would encourage his youngest charge to eat more. Now, though, just looking at that face, he couldn't find it in himself to keep him here.

"Of course, Master Dick. Would you like me to bring up some cookies and warm milk before bed?" he was willing to do anything to make the lad feel better.

"No, thank you, Alfred." With that the nine-year-old took his leave.

The days passed, and before anyone knew it, December 24th came sooner than any of them anticipated. In all of the days that had gone by, Dick's attempts to get Bruce to see his painting was fruitless. Each day he would get more and more dejected, but today, his mood was significantly better.

No matter what anyone said, Bruce was a good father. He would never ignore Dick on Christmas Eve. No matter what the problem was, unless it was short of the company becoming bankrupt, Dick would have his undivided attention.

At least, that's what he thought. He woke up bright and early, determined to start the day at daybreak, but was greeted to the worst sight he's seen all week. Opening his adoptive father's door, he saw his father was hunched over his laptop, a phone in between his ear and shoulder. He realized that Bruce had not slept at all, in favor of finishing his work.

Despite all that, he still tried. It didn't matter that the signs were practically glowing neon and telling him that Bruce will ignore him, he had to try. He knocked on the oak and peeked his head in.

A sense of déjà vu was washing over him as he called out. "Bruce?"

The billionaire looked up and Dick saw eyes full of weariness. His hair was disheveled, as if he'd been running his hand through it too many times. This made his resolve weaken, but not enough for him to back out.

"I wanted to show you something." he started. When Bruce didn't shoot him down, he thought that today would finally be the day.

"Dick, as you can see, I'm very busy. Not now." with that he returned to his phone conversation. Dick quickly turned around and shut the door.

He didn't want Bruce to see his tears. He walked briskly to his room, not making a single sound, but tear drops falling to the carpeted floor. When he reached his room, he quickly locked the door, and sunk to the floor.

He knows it's stupid, he knows it seems selfish, but he really wanted his father's attention. He was so hurt by the fact that his father brushed him off like that. Maybe it wouldn't have hurt as much if he didn't do it so often.

He couldn't let his sobs be heard, so he kept quiet. He let the sobs rack his body. He sat there, leaning against his door, for who knows how long, until he realized he couldn't cry. He was once again shocked when he realized it was early evening.

"I-I shouldn't b-be crying." he hiccupped. He stoop up and slowly walked to his bathroom.

"Bruce w-would think I-I'm w-weak." he told himself. He entered his bathroom and proceeded to wash his face. When he finished, the only indication of his weak moment was his red-rimmed eyes. He couldn't do anything about that, but maybe he could play it off as allergies.

Just as he was trying to think of a good excuse for his eyes, Alfred entered his room.

"Master Bruce requests that you meet him _downstairs_." the butler said, and took his leave afterwards.

Hearing Alfred's words, Dick hurriedly made his way to the Batcave. "Downstairs" was the code they used to refer to the Batcave. He hoped that Bruce would be too focused on the mission to notice his eyes.

"We have a mission?" he asked as he hurriedly went to get his costume, purposely avoiding looking directly at Batman until he had his mask on.

"Yes. A shipment of armor piercers just arrived at the dock. I have intel that one of Black Mask's groups will be smuggling it. We leave in five." The cold mask of Batman took over his father.

He inwardly groaned because he knows that Batman saw his eyes. He continued changing into his costumes. 'Hopefully he'll brush it off, like he did me' he thought quite bitterly.

Soon enough, they were speeding through the empty, snow-covered streets of Gotham. As they passed by, all he saw were blurs.

When they arrived in the alley nearest to the docks, they scaled up an abandoned apartment building. It was currently seven in the evening, and the smuggling wasn't happening 'til eight. They always came early to survey their surroundings.

Batman ordered Robin to survey the south side of the area, while he surveyed the north. It only took them a few minutes to survey the whole area, since they've been there before. Surveying it again was only so they know if there were any new obstacles to watch out for. He met up with Batman at the rooftop they departed from. He reported that there were no new obstacles or hazards to watch out for, and Batman shared the same information.

"Just be cautious of all the ice," he warned. They both assumed a crouching position and waited, hidden from sight. They were still on the rooftop, and had a clear view of what was down below.

Two gigantic warehouses parallel to one another. They were old and have seen better days; there was ice building on top of the roofs. Between the houses, several crates were scattered around the area. There was definitely a lot of elbowroom, but the floor was glistening with ice.

They waited for about an hour. Just when Robin was about to get cramps in his leg, the trucks arrived. The smugglers were big, burly men. Another truck arrived, and with that truck came another group of men. That was 20 in total. They moved swiftly and quietly. Robin couldn't help but notice their lack of grace and finesse.

'_I hope they slip on the ice'_ he smirked to himself.

Batman gave the signal, and they soundlessly, descended and hid behind the crates. They were a good distance away from each other, but still within sight.

The smugglers were now discussing among themselves. They were huddled together in the middle of the docks.

Robin honestly couldn't get over how dumb the move they were making was. Honestly, not only were they out in the open, but also they were in the center of everything, and huddled together; easy to take down all at once.

Batman gave him the attack signal, and they engaged in battle. As it turns out, these smugglers weren't as dumb as Robin thought. Once the first batarang was thrown, they immediately made a formation, back-to-back, guns at the ready. They shot in all directions, and even Batman had trouble dodging the sheer number of raining bullets.

As Robin took cover, he brought out his flash grenades. Once the bullets stopped, he leapt out, and threw his pellets to the ground. They served their purpose as the smugglers were stunned. He attacked like a cheetah, fast and graceful. He struck them at their knockout points. They went down like bags of potatoes.

He occasionally had to deliver a secondary kick to knock out the tougher ones. Batman did the same, fighting like a leather demon; he was untouchable. As Robin proceeded to finish up, he didn't notice that one man had woken up reached for his gun.

At first, Robin thought he was going to aim for him, so he prepared himself to dodge. He was wrong, the smuggler wasn't aiming for the Boy Wonder; he was aiming for the Bat, himself. Panic ran through him, as he made a mad dash to his father, knowing his warning wouldn't reach him in time.

The loud 'bang' echoed all throughout the docks. Dazed as he was, the smuggler still hit his target, or at least, what would have been his target. Robin, shocked by the impact of the bullet, was thrown back and slipped on the ice. He hit the unforgiving cement, and blood poured out of his torso.

As Batman punched the last smuggler, he heard the horrible, bloodcurdling gunshot. He whirled around to see his son hit the ground. Enraged, he gave the shooter a kick harder than what was necessary to knock him out completely. He didn't have time to let the satisfaction settle as, in an instant, he rushed to his son's aid.

The boy probably had a concussion with the force he fell with. His heart was pounding and he was following every calming technique he knew. All that registered in his mind was that he was going to lose his son to a gun. While saving _him, _at that.

He applied pressure on the wound, and nearly cried at the whimper that escaped the young boy's lips. It didn't matter that Dick was a vigilante, more skilled than most people in the Justice League, when it came down to it; he was still just a boy. _His_ little boy.

"Dickie, stay with me. You hear me? Stay with me." He gently ordered the prone form.

"T-Tati…it-it hurts…" the boy sounded so pathetic, Bruce couldn't help but let a small whimper escape him.

"I already have the Batmobile coming. Just hang on. Hang on for me, okay?" Dammit, where was the stupid car?

"Tati…I'm t-tired." a bolt of fear ran through Bruce.

"Don't go to sleep. Listen to me; you cannot sleep. Dickie, you have to stay awake," he pleaded urgently. He was silently praying to anyone who was listening. Not his son, not his precious son. He wouldn't be able to live through it.

Finally, _finally_ the Batmobile arrived. Batman's composure came back, and he carried the half-conscious boy as fast as he could to the car. He slammed his foot on the accelerator and sped through the city. He had already called the Commissioner, and didn't worry about the smuggler getting away.

"I wanna go to s-sleep…" Dick muttered dazedly.

"We're almost there, don't close your eyes, son." They were two minutes out, and Robin was still bleeding like there was no tomorrow. It was a miracle the boy was still conscious.

He pressed a button on the steering wheel, contacting Alfred. "Yes, sir?" came the butler's swift response.

"Call Leslie, now!" he barked through the comm.

"Right away, sir." the British man replied. Bruce rarely ever commanded Alfred, he only politely requested.

"D-Dad?" came Dick's feeble voice.

"Shh, son. Don't waste your energy." he shushed the boy. He was already entering the Batcave.

"Y-You nev-ver got to s-see my g-gift." Those were the last things he said, as he finally gave in to the bliss of unconsciousness.

Bruce suddenly felt guilt weigh heavier upon him. He'd been ignoring the boy lately because of work. Now he was on the brink of death. He remembered how Dick had red-rimmed eyes and cursed himself. He treated the boy so badly earlier that morning, and he might never get to apologize

"NO! DICK! Wake up, son!" He yelled.

He jumped out of the car, and grabbed his son. He rushed the medical bay, lightly shaking his son, in hopes of waking up the boy.

His efforts were futile as he stared at the far too pale face. Tears were welling up in his eyes, and for once he didn't care if anyone saw. He didn't care if Joker broke out of Arkham right now; all that mattered was the bundle in his arms.

He set him down on the metal table, screaming for Alfred. The butler dashed in, with Dr. Leslie Thompkins in tow. She was luckily heading to the Manor when Alfred called her.

She saw the boy she had come to think of as her grandson, and gasped. He was deathly pale, and blood was still pouring out of his torso. Bruce was in the process of cutting his shirt off, but she pushed him out of the room.

He would've protested, but he knew that his presence would only distract the two from helping his son. He paced furiously outside the medical bay. He wanted nothing more than to beat the damned shooter to a pulp, but he couldn't bear to leave his son.

His son. The little boy had stolen his heart. Bruce didn't think he would ever be happy again, if his son didn't make it out of this. The pang of guilt, which had momentarily left him, came back full force. He remembered the past days; he remembered how he ignored his son, in favor of finishing his work.

How he wished he could go back in time, so he could spend a few more moments with his son. He wished he could just hug him, play with him, and actually _be _a father. The boy at least deserved that.

Feeling like the worst person in the world, he trudged to the changing room in the Cave, and took off his bloody suit. Looking at all the blood that had accumulated on his gloves makes his want to barf. That's _Dick's_ blood. Blood he got from protecting him. He was Batman, and yet he couldn't protect his own son.

Looking back at the medical bay, he could see Alfred and Leslie working furiously, doing everything they can to bring the pale boy back to perfect health. He slowly turned, and headed back up into the Manor.

He honestly didn't know where he was going, or why he was heading up into the Manor in the first place. Evidently, his feet led him to Dick's room. The door was open by a crack. He hesitantly entered.

Everything was left as it was. The bed sheets were slightly crumpled, and Zitzka was put lovingly on top. There was a stack of books neatly put aside on his study table, and if Bruce tried hard enough, he could imagine that the whole incident never happened. He could imagine that Dick was just in the kitchen with Alfred, talking over a plate of cookies and a glass of warm milk.

He was going to leave the room, wanting to avoid lulling himself into a false sense of peace, when he noticed a canvas that had a sheet covering it, near Dick's bed. He'd never seen this, and didn't recall ever buying his on a canvas, so he deduced that this was either a project his son had for school, or it was the gift he'd wanted to show him.

The former was unlikely, as while Dick is in a higher grade level than most nine-year olds, he still couldn't have received a project this complex and the fact the he finished all his schoolwork the day he received them.

He carefully removed the cover, and nearly punched a wall out of the guilt and frustration. The painting was probably the best Christmas gift he'd received. It was made carefully, and was beautifully detailed. It was just so…_ beautiful. _He hasn't officially received it, but he's already cherishing it.

Alfred's voice broke his train of thought. "He worked on that piece for weeks…" came the British man's voice.

Bruce didn't even bother turning. "I assume you bought him the supplies he would need?"

"No, sir." That got Bruce's attention.

"What do you mean 'no'?"

"I mean, sir, that he bought everything with his own money. All I had to do was drive him to the proper stores."

"But that's…he could've been kidnapped! Or gotten lost!" he said nearly hysterical.

"Sir, for one thing, the boy is Robin. Any kidnapper would have trouble just _finding_ him, and he is more than capable to know which way he came from. For another, do you really think I would let the lad out of my sight? I shadowed him, of course." came the butler's blunt response.

Once Bruce's questions were answered, the older man's face softened. The man he had raised was so worried, so terrified of what would happen to his own son.

"He's stable now, Master Bruce." he said softly.

"The fact that he needs to be stabilized is what bothers me." Bruce said, running a hand through his hair.

"Sir, it wasn't you fault-"

"Yes it was!" Bruce cut him off. "I should have been more aware of my surroundings! I should've made sure that the damned smugglers were really knocked out! I should've seen the smuggler come to! I should've…I should've saved my son." he finished his rant with a broken whisper.

Bruce sat down on the bed, and put his head in his hands. He let a few tears slip out, because right now, he was Bruce Wayne, a father. He heard Alfred's footsteps approach him

"I became Batman, so I could protect the people of Gotham. So they would never have to deal with the pain of losing something, or someone, to injustice. Tonight, I failed. I failed to protect the most important person in Gotham, my son. He took a bullet for _me_. I should have been the one protecting him.

A hand rested on his shoulder. "Bruce, look at me." Alfred rarely dropped the "Master" spiel, so he did.

"None of this was your fault. You can't control everything. You can't keep pondering on what you should have done. If you do that, you'll be driven insane. Everyone has their regrets, and it accumulates over their lives. There are many things you should have done, just as there are many things I should have done. But, we can't turn back time. All we can do is take action _now, _in the present."

Alfred's words of wisdom finally sunk in. He stood up, and gave the man a hug. Alfred was shocked, to say the least. Bruce rarely showed emotion, and when he did, it was usually towards Dick. He got over his shock, and hugged the man back.

"Thank you." came Bruce's voice.

Bruce let go and headed downstairs to the Cave. On his way, he dreaded what he would see. Yes, his son was stable now, but that's just it. Stable has a very broad definition.

He finally arrived at the medical bay. Leslie was just coming out of it, looking haggard, bloodied, but satisfied. The blood stains on Leslie's coat and gloves simultaneously made him want to barf and punch someone. That was Dick's blood. That was _his little boy's blood_. Someone had to pay for that

He was going to start a rampage when Leslie spoke. "He's stable now. The bullet went through cleanly, but he's lost a lot of blood. Other than that, he should be fine."

Leslie had a gentle smile adorning her face, and that somehow gave Bruce comfort. Leslie helped raise him, and continued to help him in his crusade, even if she highly unapproved.

With a sincere smile, he replied. "Thank you, Leslie."

She nodded her acknowledgement and left him with instructions to call her if any complications arise. He thanked her once more and proceeded to enter the medical bay.

Upon entering, an indescribable amount of guilt hit him. The sight of his son, who was far too still for his liking, made him want to crawl into a whole and die. Dick was still unconscious, with a blanket covering his chest down. He looked younger than he actually was.

Bruce approached him and sat down on a nearby chair. He held the tiny hand in his own, and marveled at how perfectly it fit. He doesn't believe in magic. But he believes in fate. He doesn't know where he would be now if he hadn't found Dick, but he certainly can't imagine life without him now. Every time he did, it scared him.

He's Batman, the night, the vengeance, and darkness itself, but he was afraid. He was afraid of losing the most important thing in his life. Batman is a fearsome vigilante, but he is still human, he is still a father.

"Dick…" he started. "I don't know if you can hear me, but I saw your gift for me. I saw the painting. It's…beautiful chum. It's the best Christmas present I've ever received."

He feels ridiculous, talking to someone who can't possibly hear him. Yet, he was also comforted. "I'm sorry I didn't listen. I'm sorry that I've been ignoring you, these past few days have been stressful, but that's no excuse. You worked hard on that, and I should've been paying attention to you. I should've seen that smuggler waking up."

He took a deep breath, willing himself to stay strong. " I know that Alfred said it wasn't my fault, but that doesn't make me any less guilty, chum. Just…just wake up for me okay? I know I haven't been showing it, but you're my son. I love you, and I'm sorry that I don't say it enough."

He let go of the pale hand, and stood to leave. His hand was hovering above the door handle, when he heard a quiet, frail whisper. "…Bruce?"

In an instant, he was once again at his son's side. "Dick? Dick, can you hear me?"

It took a little while, but slowly, Dick's eyes fluttered open. Looking into those baby blue orbs, Bruce nearly sobbed with relief. "I'm so glad you're awake. Does anything hurt? Do you want me to get Alfred?"

"No…no" Dick coughed, and tried to sit himself up. Bruce immediately moved to help him. Once Dick was settled, he let himself relax.

Looking at him now, now that he was awake, he didn't look so bad. Maybe he was a little pale, a bit too tried than a ten-year old should have been, but other than that, Bruce could accept it.

He grabbed some water from the pitcher and glass Alfred left them and offered Dick a glass of water. Seeing his nod of affirmation, he brought the glass to the boys lips, and slowly tilted it.

Once Dick had quenched his thirst, Bruce sat down once more, looking more relieved. "How are you feeling?" he asked.

"Tired…but the morphine is dulling the pain for now." Dick explained, his voice still a bit hoarse, but getting clearer with every word.

"Good, that's good…" Bruce was still feeling awkward. He didn't know if Dick heard him or not, but he meant what he said. Saying it to his face, when he was awake, now that was a different story.

"…I heard you, you know." Dick said, satisfying his curiosity. Bruce held his breath. What would his son think of him now? Would he agree with him? Would he also say that he was a bad father? Or worse, would he want to leave?

"You did?"

"It's not your fault, Bruce. I'm your partner, I'm _supposed _to watch your back." Dick explained. He knew, from the moment he took that bullet, that his father would blame himself. He didn't remember exactly what happened after he was shot, but he remembered the hysteria in his father's voice clear as day.

"You got hurt protecting me Dick, and you're my son. I'm your father, even if I don't deserve that title, and the way I see it, I'm the one who is supposed to protect _you."_

"You're right Bruce, you're not my father." That crushed Bruce, it crushed him more than he would like to admit.

"You're not my father, because you are my dad. You cared for me, you're raising me, you love me. John Grayson loved me too, but he d-died." Dick stumbled over the horrible word. He took a deep breath, looking so much like Bruce did just a few minutes ago.

"And the way I see it, you'll be with me for the rest of my life. So no, you're not my father, you're my dad." he finished, repeating his starting statement.

In that moment, Dick didn't sound like a ten-year-old, and his words really stuck to Bruce. He went forward and hugged his son, mindful of his injuries. He held him tight, treasuring every moment.

"You're right," Bruce said once he let go. He gripped his son's shoulders. "I _will_ be with you for the rest of your life. Everything I'm doing now is for you. You will inherit everything, because you're my son. I'm sorry I've been ignoring you." He said once again, even though Dick said he heard you.

Dick coughed again, until his eyes watered and Bruce let him have a bit more water. "It's fine Bruce, really."

"No, it's not fine. You're painting is beyond amazing, and I can tell how hard you worked on it."

"You were really busy, and I know I can't always be your top priority. I mean…other people rely on you too." The wisdom in Dick's voice that was there just moments ago vanished, making him finally sound his age. He sounded like a dropkicked puppy, and Bruce really wanted to smack himself.

"That's the thing, Dickie. You _are_ my top priority; never forget that. Whenever you need me I'll be there." he said

Dick looked up at him, his eyes were shining with tears, but he was smiling, and seeing that smile made Bruce the happiest man alive. Dick glanced at the clock hanging on the wall to the far left. It was midnight.

Bruce followed his gaze, and didn't understand what was so important with it being midnight. He felt small arms wrap around his waist, and instinctively hugged back.

"Merry Christmas, Dad. I love you." That made his Christmas day.

"Merry Christmas, son. I love you, too."


End file.
